


Of My Dreams

by Fire_Bear



Series: OUAP Mystical Week [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (since this is focussing on Keith and Lance, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle, Day 1, Disease, Heavy Angst, Historical, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multiple Deaths, OUAPEvent Mystical Week, Period-Typical Racism, Poverty, Reincarnation, Slavery, Swordfighting, Victorian, Violence, World War II, the racism is sort of only touched on)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 17:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Bear/pseuds/Fire_Bear
Summary: History repeats itself. Perhaps not in exactly the same ways but Keith still has to watch it happen in every life.





	Of My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> At first, I was gonna do a simple story focussing on Shiro. And then I had another idea and... it got more complicated.
> 
> In some sections, their names are different: Keith is Shiwoo and Lance is Lorenzo. There are also times where Lance introduces himself as Lance but that's not actually his name, just a nickname or what other people have been calling him.
> 
> All the sections will have notes at the end to explain things/tell you about the actual history. :)

**11 th Century**

Keith met Lancelot as they rode into battle. He was part of another lord's faction but they were combined into one force today. Apart from the rattle of chainmail and the snorting of horses, it had been quiet. Everyone knew it was going to be a big encounter – they could tell by the sheer numbers marching before them and the numbers following behind. People were nervous: some checked and rechecked their weapons; others clutched at crosses to pray.

As he had his helmet off, Keith was able to see movement out of the corner of his eye. Looking over, he saw a fellow knight with dark skin leaning towards him. The stranger held out his hand with a genial smile and, after a moment's hesitation, Keith gripped it. The man introduced himself with his full name.

"But you can call me Lance," the man finished.

"My name is Keith," he replied.

"I am pleased to meet you."

"As am I." Keith paused. "Do you think...?"

"We'll win? Definitely!" exclaimed Lance. "I mean, look at how many knights we have. I heard there's only a score of knights for the other side." He laughed, his face lighting up. Keith was surprised at how handsome he looked in the sunlight.

"Truly?"

"Yes! I heard it from my lord when he spoke to us about joining the cause. He told everyone." Lance beamed at him, obviously happy at the news.

Raising an eyebrow, Keith was about to tell him that he was being duped, that he was far too gullible. Then he realised that, though he was smiling and being cheery, Lance's eyes had a dullness to them that told Keith he didn't actually believe his lord's words. "That's reassuring," he told Lance, smiling at him.

* * *

Keith saw Lancelot go down in the heat of battle. His horse was struck by an arrow right through one of its eyes. It collapsed with Lance still on top of it, his sword still swinging. Keith wheeled his horse around, eyes wide as he watched, worried that Lance would be trapped under the animal. But the knight managed to free the foot on one side and struck his other foot free from the stirrup using his sword. He ended up stumbling to his feet beside the poor creature, swinging at a foot soldier's pike. It knocked the weapon out of the way but the man charged at him.

Roaring, Keith swung his sword down on the man's head, denting his helmet. He collapsed before he could reach Lance. Heart pounding, Keith held his hand out to Lance. His helmet turned towards him and that was the only indication Keith had that Lance was looking at him.

"You cannot fight with me up there with you!" he called.

"Just get on the horse!" Keith yelled over the clangs and cries surrounding them.

"I will stay here, thank you!"

And, without a backward glance, Lance surged forward, ducking under another pike. This time, he was the one to take down the man, his sword slicing through his leg. Blood spurted everywhere and Lance's armour was covered in red. He ignored it and carried on.

Worried, though he didn't know why he should be, Keith kept up with him, directing his horse through the clustered men and fallen horses. He struck an enemy knight from his horse and smacked the horse's flank, sending the animal running, causing chaos in its wake. Men approached him, seeing that he was still at a height advantage. One pike pierced his horse's shoulder but the animal only kicked out, sending the man flying. The other one aimed at him but stopped short when a sword caught the back of his neck. Blood shot out of him as he collapsed, face down – his body was soon trampled under another horse.

Looking up, Keith saw that Lance was grinning at him, his helmet gone. His eyes were alight, as if the battle was invigorating him. Or, maybe, he was proud of himself for helping Keith. Then he turned away again, stopping another knight's sword. Another one bore down on him and Keith intercepted him.

They continued in this way, Lance stopping the foot soldiers from downing Keith's horse, Keith keeping mounted knights at bay. However, Keith could see a problem. As they had seen when they arrived at the battlefield, there had been far more horses and men on the opposing side than expected. They also had the advantageous ground which sloped slightly upwards. Though the ground beneath them was firm for now, it was prone to getting boggy after rain and the blood soaking into it was not helping. More and more mounted knights came rushing at them; more and more foot soldiers appeared.

Their army was being overwhelmed.

Glancing over his shoulder, Keith noted that their forces were scattered. Barely audible, a horn was blaring. Either their side was retreating or it was regrouping. Whichever it was, it was clearly time to go.

He waited until Lance had dispatched another man who was still fighting with a broken pike. As soon as the man's body was on the ground, he called out to the other knight. "Lance! Time to go!" Switching his sword to his other hand, he reached out for him.

Lance turned to him. "What?" he asked, eyes wide. "We cannot give up!"

"Regroup!" Keith told him.

For a moment, Lance hesitated. It was his downfall. While their side retreated, the enemy had brought forth its archers. Just as he came to a decision and stepped towards Keith, a flurry of arrows flew through the air. Keith cried out and raised his gauntled arm – the arrows glanced off his helmet and protected arm. Once the wave had passed, Keith lowered his arm. Lance was still, staring up at him with horror in his eyes. Keith could see why.

An arrow stuck through Lance's neck, blood flowing out of the wound at a rapid rate.

They stared at each other, both of them unable to move. Then Lance smiled up at Keith, almost apologetically. He grabbed the arrow. Before Keith could stop him, he pulled it out, spun around and plunged it into an approaching pikeman's eye. Lance collapsed after that, falling to his knees, sword still in hand.

Biting his lip, Keith nodded, though Lance couldn't see. Then he wheeled his horse around and started the long gallop back to their camp, determined not to waste the chance Lance had given him.

* * *

**1240**

Keith was a blacksmith's apprentice. He had started off as a street urchin, orphaned at a young age. Keeping himself alive had included picking pockets or running errands for a pittance. As he grew older, he saved a meagre amount from each handful of money he collected, hiding it under the floorboards of a ruined house he used as his own. Eventually, he had enough to buy a cart and began to deliver things between businesses. From that, he saved some of his money until he deemed he had enough and sold the cart to someone else. Then he'd went to the blacksmith's and implored him to teach him his ways, offering him the money. The man had accepted and soon he was able to make a vast number of metallic goods.

It also meant that the blacksmith himself could bunk off to visit certain woman during the day and not arouse suspicion with his wife. Thankfully, it left Keith to get through the majority of their orders during the morning and take breaks whenever he liked in the afternoon. That was why he was sat in the cool air outside the smithy when a group of street kids gossiped.

"A Moor, they said," said one of the boys, a thin thing with ragged clothing. He had a piece of cloth pushed up from his eyes and a bowl in his hand.

"Are you sure?" asked a little girl who had a basket of flowers in her hands.

"Don't know," the boy admitted. "But she's real pretty. They say the lord keeps her locked in the western tower to keep her as far from home as possible."

"That's petty," said a boy who had his hands tucked in his pockets.

"What are you talking about?" Keith asked, curiously.

The children jumped and startled but, when they turned to see who it was, they relaxed. "Oh, Keith!" said the first boy. "You fair scared us!"

"Apologies," said Keith with a shrug. "But I'm curious as to what the talk of the town is."

"The lord has a new slave – but she's so pretty, he made her ride into town on a horse."

"Huh," Keith mused. "Did you see her?"

"No. Doubt anyone will now."

"Unless they work in the castle," Keith pointed out.

"True," said the second lad. "But that _does_ mean that we won't."

"Suppose you're right."

But the town talked of nothing else for a fortnight and, one particular day, he was scowling when the children approached. "What's wrong, Keith?" they asked.

"I'm fed up about this slave," Keith told them, fiercely. "Everyone talks as if they've seen her but none of the stories are the same. If only someone could find out what she's actually like!"

"No-one can get into the tower, though!" cried the girl.

"And he only brings her out on certain nights for her to warm his bed," added the 'blind' boy.

"He'll be doing that more once his wife gets too fat," the other boy commented. "She's getting bigger every day since he knocked her up!"

Keith turned to look at the castle which towered over the houses. "She's in the western tower?" he said, slowly.

"Oy, oy!" cried the 'blind' boy. "You're not thinking of going there, are you?"

As it was, Keith did think about it and, after fashioning a hook from a spare piece of metal and taking a long length of rope from the shop, he made his way to the castle. It was a formidable structure, built a century or so ago. There were the outer walls to get past, with its battlements, guards patrolling it. Then the square keep was separated from those walls by a courtyard. Keith didn't know what else was there as he'd only been able to see that through the gates.

He crept to the wall one night and flung his hook onto the wall. When no-one shouted, he tugged on it to test it would take his weight before climbing up it. Keith didn't pause at all as he climbed, not bothering to look down or up to see how far he had to go, only making sure he had a strong hold and had planted his feet solidly. Eventually, he reached the battlement, bemused that no-one had noticed the hook. Turning his head slightly, he heard drunken singing coming from a door to his left. Snorting, Keith hooked his tool on the other side, made sure it held and climbed down, dropping the last few feet.

Then came the most difficult part. As quietly as he could, he jerked the rope wildly, listening to the hook scraping against the wall. It took some time for the hook to come free from the merlon Keith had hooked it around but, finally, Keith saw it coming down and jumped out of the way, watching it land at his feet. He picked it up, grimaced at the indent on the ground and scraped his shoe over it in an attempt to cover it up.

Cautiously, he then hurried through the courtyard, aware that he might not be so lucky on the way back. No-one saw him, as he usually wore dark clothes and so blended in with the shadows. Upon reaching the tower in question, he paused. Which window should he throw the hook at? He squinted and spotted that the topmost one had something in the way of light. Perhaps that was where she was kept? Taking that chance, he threw it up, wincing as it missed and came thudding down. He tried two more times before he was successful. Heart thudding, he waited for someone to lean out of the window and raise the alarm. But nothing happened and, after testing it, he began to climb once again, his arms and legs protesting.

Eventually, he reached the window and, since it was narrow, twisted and slid through until he was sprawled on the floor. Panting, he looked around, noting the fine silks and glinting candlesticks. A fire burned low on the hearth. In front of him was a pair of dark-skinned legs, adorned with a turquoise-embedded anklet. He scrambled to sit up.

"Who are you?" demanded an accented voice, the person's hands brandishing an unlit candlestick.

Keith stared. The person in front of him was no woman. A slender young man with smooth skin stood there. Draped tantalisingly over him was a very fine piece of blue silk which covered his chest and crotch but nothing else. His arms were decorated with golden bracelets which ran the length of them in intricate patterns. Dangling earrings glinted in the candlelight, matching his blue eyes. Brown hair curled around his face, his brow furrowed in determination. 

Around his neck was a collar, thick and ugly compared to the rest of him. Attached to it was a thick chain. Keith took a chance and followed it to see that it was connected to one of the posts of the massive bed which dominated the room. There were flowers decorating the room while lewd tapestries hung on the wall. Keith wrenched his gaze away to spot a loom in the corner and a little songbird perched in a cage, chirping in interest.

"Answer me!" the man snapped.

"I'm-I'm Keith," he answered, dumbfounded.

"And what are you doing here, Keith?" spat the man.

"I came to look upon the slave so beautiful that everyone is talking about her." The man lowered the candlestick and Keith got to his feet. "I would say that I have the wrong room save for the chain and the fact that you are the most beautiful person I have ever seen."

Surprised, the man took a step back, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. "What-? I do not understand what is going on..." he said, hesitantly. "Is this another of the master's games?"

"No," Keith assured him. "I came of my own accord."

"I... You came to see a woman?"

"The slave that came here two weeks ago," Keith said, wondering if there was a language barrier. "Was that you?"

"Yes. The master bought me many moons ago."

"Then why do people think that you are a woman?"

The slave shifted uncomfortably and backed away from Keith, turning to put down his improvised weapon. Instinctively, Keith followed. "The master does not want it known that he has me. He didn't want people to think that he had a 'pretty boy'. Something to do with a rival of his who likes 'pretty boys'. So he gave me a dress and a headdress to keep people from knowing what I am."

"Oh," said Keith, cheeks turning red as he thought on the implications. He made the mistake of glancing at a tapestry and quickly turned away.

Apparently, the slave noticed for he snorted and darted forward with dainty steps until he was right in front of Keith. The apprentice stilled, staring at the slave with wide eyes. "Do you like boys, too?"

"I- What-?! You-You-" Flustered, Keith ducked his head, trying to hide his blush. The slave patted him gently, laughing.

"I apologise." The slave backed off, making his way to the bed, his chain jingling as he moved.

"How long do you stay in here every day?" asked Keith, suddenly.

"All day," the man answered. He gestured at the wrinkled sheets. "You just missed seeing my master... hm, what is the word you use...?"

"No! No, I understand!" exclaimed Keith before remembering to keep his voice down and wincing.

Again, the slave laughed. "You are amusing."

Keith huffed and folded his arms. "I'm glad you think so."

The slave smiled at him before his eyes were drawn to the window. "Did you make that yourself?" he asked, nodding to the hook.

"Yes," answered Keith, seeing no harm in admitting it. "I am the blacksmith's apprentice."

Humming, the slave considered him. "Can you remove this chain?"

"Remove it from what?" Keith asked, with narrow eyes. "I will not put myself in danger for someone I just met. Especially not a slave."

Nodding, the man seemed to slump slightly in defeat. But he was soon sitting straight-backed again, the change so quick that Keith wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. "In that case, you should leave."

"Why?" asked Keith, feeling oddly disappointed.

"Because I might steal it," the slave answered in a sing-song voice, gesturing to the hook.

"Even if you cannot free yourself of the chain?"

Smirking, the slave said, "You'll be surprised what men will do if you beg for it during sex."

"Will the lord not be suspicious?"

A dark expression crossed the slave's face. "I do not only serve the lord, my master," he murmured, his head turned away.

Chewing at his lip, Keith wondered why he felt like he should do something. The slave wasn't anything special. But something told him that he was important, that he should be saved, that he  _wanted_ to help. Finally, he settled on saying, "What's your name?"

The slave looked surprised. "Lance."

Keith hesitated a moment longer before nodding. "I'll be back tomorrow night, Lance. At the same time, barring any incidents."

"What?" said Lance, apparently stunned. "Why?"

"Because I want to," said Keith, already making his way to the window. He swung himself over the ledge and paused with his body half in the room. His gaze met Lance's shocked expression. "I want to see you again," he told him honestly, though he still didn't know why. Then he squirmed the rest of the way out and let himself drop, wincing at the ache in his arms.

* * *

Keith was there when Lance finally left that room forever. It had been weeks since he had met Lance. At first, he had been careful, keeping his visits down to one or two a week. He'd made another hook and given it to him and brought him extra rope. The chain was trickier as he determined that he needed tools for that and had to take them from the smithy. Those were more obvious when they went missing and he had had to wait. But he still visited, talking with Lance, learning about where he came from and what he was like.

At one point, Lance had kissed him. It had been when he'd visited on the wrong night, after one of the guards had sneaked in with an aphrodisiac and forced Lance to drink it. Lance had been used by the guard until the guard was satisfied but was still horny. He'd kissed Keith until the apprentice had managed to get away. Alarmed at how good he had felt, Keith had fled the tower.

But he returned the next night and, before Lance could apologise, Keith had pulled him into a kiss. To begin with, they had kept to kissing and cuddling, happy to merely keep each other company. But, that night, Lance had shown Keith how to fuck him, using oils and careful fingers.

They lay together in Lance's bed, limbs tangled together and foreheads resting against each other. Both of them were happy, their eyes locked as Lance chattered about his family. Suddenly, his eyes dimmed. "I miss them," he admitted. "I cannot wait to see them again – if they are still ali-"

"Hey," said Keith, sternly. "What have I said?"

"'Do not think like that'," said Lance, smiling fondly at Keith.

"Exactly." Keith pressed a kiss to Lance's forehead. "I will help you find them, no matter what."

"Thank you, Keith," said Lance, his smile widening. "I look forward to seeing the world with you." He shifted towards him and pressed a loving kiss to Keith's lips.

The door flew open: both of them jumped apart, scrambling to hide. Keith ended up dragging the sheets with him, covering himself from the waist down. Lance stood, fully naked and wide eyed as the lord of the region swept in.

Having never seen the man before, Keith stared at how ugly he was. The lord's hair was streaked with grey and his beard was scraggly and patchy. He looked furious, his purple robes wrapped around him in a hurry. Face flushed, it was clear he had been drinking. Behind him were several guards, each of them with their hands on their swords.

"Master," murmured Lance, bowing his head.

Without a word, the lord grabbed hold of the chain and yanked it, pulling Lance towards him. Lance stumbled forward, gasping. Even from the angle he was at, Keith could see that Lance was frightened. Those beautiful blue eyes glanced at him, glanced at the window and looked away. Keith knew he was trying to tell him to go but he couldn't, not when Lance coughed from the force of the lord's third pull.

"Stop it!" he cried, stepping forward.

Barely glancing at him, the lord turned back to the slave. "You let this man take you," he said. It was not a question.

"Yes, master," said Lance, quietly. The way he was acting, the subservience, did not suit him. But Keith knew that he was only being quiet to protect him. That frustrated Keith – he was meant to be the one saving Lance, setting him free. Why had he waited so long? Was he afraid that Lance would fly away from him, just as the songbird had when Lance finally let it out?

"You've let a lot of men take you – were you starved for my attentions? Should I have chained you to my own bed?"

"I... Please forgive me, master. I serve only you."

Grabbing Lance's hair, he pulled Lance closer to him. The slave yelped and Keith took two steps forward – and was stopped by a forest of sword points. He froze, watching in dismay as Lance whimpered, his hands instinctively coming up to grip at the lord's hand. "You are mine," snarled the lord. "Mine and mine alone. You are not supposed to be sullied by other people! Disgusting." He threw Lance to the floor where the slave sprawled for a moment.

"I-I apologise, master," Lance gasped. "I will not serve anyone other than you. I swe-"

Lance was cut off as he choked, the lord using the chain to lift him up. Quickly, Lance got his feet under him but kept his head down. For a moment, the lord only stared at Lance. Then he threw him at the bed. "I will not have you."

"M-Master?" asked Lance. Keith could see he was trembling and twitched slightly, wishing he could go to him.

"I will not keep a slave who cannot follow instructions." He turned to the guards. "Take him downstairs. Chain him up." Pausing, the lord seemed to consider his next action. "He has betrayed me, committed treason – execute him at midday."

"What, no!" exclaimed Keith, lunging forward. He was stopped by a sword pressing into his sternum, just enough to scratch him. Blood dripped down from the minor wound but Keith hardly noticed it, only saw Lance levering himself up from his position to scramble towards the lord.

"Please. _Please_. Master, I wish to serve you. Do not throw me away!"

Something twisted in Keith's gut. He knew then that Lance would never be able to come away with him. Either Lance would die tomorrow or he would be locked away, somewhere with no windows and eunuchs for guards. Only the lord would touch him and it would be only for the lord's pleasure. Lance's spirit would die.

Again, the lord grabbed Lance's hair. He threw him at the guards. "I know one of you has been with him. The others can use him while he waits to die. But take him out of my sight – now."

Keith tried again. "Please, my lord!" he cried. "Please. Do not kill him. L-Let me buy him! I have some money saved away. I want him, even if you do not."

As Keith stared at the lord, trying to get him to see sense, Lance stood very still, the guards hesitating. However, the lord stared back, unimpressed. "Who _are_ you?"

"I am the blacksmith's apprentice," he told the lord. "I am very good at my job."

The lord meandered over to the window where he plucked the hook from where it still sat. "This is your work?"

"Yes, sir," Keith replied.

"You _are_ good. It would be a waste, I think, if I killed you." He turned to the guards again. "Take this man away from town. Abandon him wherever you see fit. If any of you see him in this town again, kill him. As for the slave, kill it in the morning – midday is too long a wait. You had best be quick if you want to fuck it." The lord swept out of the room and the guards surrounded them, separating them. One of them unlocked the collar around Lance's neck, effortlessly freeing him from the bed.

"No!" cried Keith. "Please!" He looked to Lance who looked pained for a moment before sending Keith a smile. " _Lance_!"

Somehow, through sheer force of will, Keith knocked aside some swords and lunged at Lance, taking his hands in his, uncaring that he was now naked as well. Lance's smile widened and he leaned closer to Keith, straining at his captor's grip. "Thank you, Keith," he whispered into Keith's ear. "Do not despair for me. I will be free." Then he was pulled from Keith's grip and dragged through the door. Keith could hear him kicking and screaming and causing a ruckus. It stopped abruptly and that was the last Keith saw of Lance.

* * *

**June 1655**

Kogane Shiwoo first met the Spanish sailor when their king allowed his shipwrecked crew to live among his own people. Being a soldier in _jusang jeonha_ 's guard, Shiwoo had been asked to show them to rooms amongst the king's guard. Fully armoured, ready for anything, the young soldier had been at the back of the group, convinced that any one of them might turn on their hosts. He had decided he didn't trust them and his superior had told him that was the correct attitude.

One of the sailors, despite the situation, hung back from his crewmates, slowing until he was walking next to the young soldier. His skin was brown, a darker shade than Shiwoo had ever seen. Shiwoo wondered if it was because the sun had baked him on his ship and he'd stayed that way. He looked thinner than was healthy but he had a blinding grin and blue eyes which Shiwoo found rather alarming – especially when they focussed on Shiwoo.

"What is it?" Shiwoo snapped, hand on the hilt of his sword.

The man's head tilted, a mixture of amusement and confusion on his face. He said something in his own language and Shiwoo tensed. It did not sound like anything he had ever heard before and it unnerved him. Yet it also fascinated him. When he didn't respond, the man laughed. Then he placed his hand on his chest and said, "Lance."

For a moment, Shiwoo didn't understand. But, when the man repeated the action, Shiwoo realised that he was introducing himself. Warily, Shiwoo bowed his head and said, "Kogane."

"Kogane, hm?" said the man. Again, he said something in his own language. When Kogane didn't respond, he held out his hand. Shiwoo didn't take it, just nodded ahead. Lance frowned at that and stalked off, glancing over his shoulder.

Shiwoo was glad he had moved. He wasn't used to dealing with people who weren't other soldiers or people he was intimidating into leaving. However, he knew he would have to deal with the man later, as his entire crew were going to be conscripted to the king's guard.

* * *

**1656**

"I cannot stay," said Lance in wobbly Korean. He had come a long way since their first meeting and Shiwoo was proud of him. He'd also regained the weight he had lost from his voyage and shipwrecking while also gaining muscles from wearing the heavy armour customary to the guard. He wore it now, sans helmet, his long bangryeong brushing at his calves. To Shiwoo, he looked handsome and perfect, especially with that smooth, exotic skin.

It broke his heart that Lance wanted to leave him.

Lance seemed to understand that because he smiled at Shiwoo, gripping his hands – Shiwoo had gotten a lot better at being touched since they'd met. "I do not want to go."

"That is a contradiction," growled Shiwoo. He saw Lance's puzzlement as he tried to figure out the words he had used. "You cannot want both."

"The water calls to me," Lance told him. "And this is not my king."

"He could be if you tried," Shiwoo told him, eyes narrowed.

Rolling his eyes, Lance shook his head. "I am... unease," he said, uncertainly. "It is not right. My family. I want to see him." He stopped, cursed in his own language and corrected himself. "Them. I want to see them."

"I do not want you to go," Shiwoo admitted. "Stay. Please. Do not leave me."

Again, Lance shook his head. "Help me," he said and flapped his arms.

Shiwoo hesitated. Lance and his friends planned to ambush a Manchu envoy on its way to the capital. They had to move fast if they wanted to do it as the envoy had already been spotted further north. Lance had told him a little while ago that he wanted to do it without his armour, so he did not have to continue wearing it. Childishly, Shiwoo considered refusing to help. But he knew that Lance could remove it himself. This was an excuse to stay together longer.

Slowly, Shiwoo moved forward and began to unbuckle it. "I do not like this," he muttered. "Something could go wrong. You could be hurt."

"I will be fine," said Lance, turning his head to watch him. "Will you show us?"

"To your ambush?" said Shiwoo, glancing up.

"Yes. Please."

It was a request Shiwoo couldn't refuse even as his heart ached.

Soon, the armour was removed as was the bangryeong and Lance pulled on the linen shirt he had been wearing when he'd arrived, as well as the leggings and boots. Shiwoo respectfully turned his head and only turned back when Lance's hands pulled at his shoulders. Looking at him, the image of a foreigner, Shiwoo felt a strange mix of unease and wistfulness. He wished he'd been able to see Lance in this more often.

"Show me?" said Lance.

Shiwoo did as he was asked. When they exited the room, two more men from the crew followed behind, though they had opted to keep their armour. They said something to Lance. The Spaniard wrinkled his nose – Shiwoo somehow found it adorable – and said something in return. Their companions laughed and Lance smiled at them before turning it on Shiwoo.

It still took his breath away.

They exited Gyeongbokgung, crossed the large courtyard and passed through the Sinmumun gate. Nobody questioned them. Shiwoo was relieved as he wasn't a good liar and Lance couldn't speak Korean terribly well. Making their way through the city, they eventually arrived at a place where the road was partially blocked with merchant's stalls. It was also on a direct route to the palace. A small alleyway formed a junction and they gathered there.

"Stay back," Lance told Shiwoo. "They should not see you."

He did as he was told, using the shadows to hide. Then they waited, none of them speaking. When they were spotted, the people moved on, averting their gaze. Nobody wanted to be in trouble for interfering in case it was a royal matter.

Eventually, they heard the rattle of a carriage and the accented shouts ordering people to move aside. The Manchu envoy had arrived. It grew closer. Lance turned his head to look at Shiwoo; he stared back, biting his lip to keep from saying anything, from ruining Lance's chance to get back to his family. Seeming to notice, Lance smiled.

Suddenly, it was there and Lance and his friends were leaping from the alley. Lance went out last. Shiwoo rushed forward to see him off – he got to the mouth of the alley in time to see a muddled commotion, wooden planks flying through the air. There were yells of surprise, a thudding noise and the carriage careened around the corner and out of sight. Shiwoo could see the two men in the guard's clothing clinging to its side. Stalls were destroyed in the wake of the vehicle. People had fled; no-one was in the street any longer, though a great many peered from around buildings or doorways.

A man lay in the street.

Stomach dropping, Shiwoo ran to the man's side. As he drew closer, he saw the clothing he wore and knew then that it was who he most wanted it not to be. He fell to his knees a few feet away and slid to a stop beside him. The victim was face down and Shiwoo quickly rolled him over.

Lance was covered in blood, his grey shirt saturated with it. When he breathed, his chest moved strangely. One of his legs hadn't moved when Shiwoo had turned him and it lay at an awkward angle. Shiwoo wasn't sure how he still lived but Lance's eyelids were fluttering, his eyelashes longer than Shiwoo had ever noticed before. When his eyes finally focussed, he blinked a few times before smiling weakly at Shiwoo.

"Lance," Shiwoo said quietly, unable to say anything else. How could he express everything he felt when he could see Lance fading? There was no time to tell him everything and he certainly couldn't do it in public.

"Ah, Kogane..." said Lance, slowly. "The driver... frightened." Lance coughed. "The other two?"

"They looked fine," Shiwoo informed him, tugging Lance closer. He berated himself when Lance winced and coughed up blood. His lungs had been pierced by a broken rib, Shiwoo knew, and there would be no saving him, not in time.

"Good." Lance's smile grew. "I... am glad... you... are here... at the end." With a trembling, slow hand, Lance reached up to cup Shiwoo's cheek. "Shiwoo," he murmured, stealing the soldier's breath. He spoke once more, holding Shiwoo's gaze. His final words meant nothing to Shiwoo, who knew none of Lance's language. With Lance learning Shiwoo's language, Shiwoo had had no need to learn Lance's and never imagined he would want so desperately to know it.

"Te amo," was what Lance said before he struggled to draw in breath. His eyes went wide, he grimaced as if in pain – and then he just... stopped. Everything went out of him and his hand dropped to his side. Those blue eyes of his, usually so bright and cheerful, went dull.

Just as he had planned to do, Lance left him. And he took Shiwoo's heart.

* * *

**11** **th** **August 1762**

Keith was one of the soldiers of the British army who marched into Havana on the day the Spanish surrendered. He tried not to look disgusted at the obvious filth littered around: dead and diseased bodies, flies, faeces, ill people, emaciated people. Several of the citizens could be seen weeping over the bodies of their families.

Some of them stared as they passed, listless. Others looked fearful, clearly afraid that they were about to slaughter them all. Keith wanted to tell them otherwise but he knew they'd just be frightened if he approached. A few of them ducked their heads, cautious.

Then, a pair of furious eyes.

Marching past a narrow street, Keith's curious gaze caught sight of a young man, a boy really, just a little younger than Keith. His clothes hung off him and he looked rather thin and lanky. With his hair a mess and dirt on his hands and face, he was in quite a state. But that did not stop him glaring at the British forces who went by, hands curled into fists.

Unable to stop with the other soldiers around him, Keith tried to catch the man's eye. Remarkably, the Cuban seemed drawn to him and, once they stared at each other, Keith shook his head slightly, hoping to dissaude him from attacking. Then, so he wouldn't get into trouble, he turned his head to the front, carrying on. No cries came from behind them and no rifles were fired.

Something about the man made Keith want to find him again.

* * *

Later, after enduring some mocking from his fellows as he left them, Keith wandered the streets, grimacing at the depressing sights. He wasn't sure whether he could help any of the people he passed. Some of them seemed to be in the process of moving on. Things were being repaired. But it was mostly quiet. Still. Haunting.

So, when he turned a corner and walked right into the man he'd seen earlier, he had to stifle a yelp in surprise. Stepping back, Keith took in his appearance once again. He still looked furious but he'd apparently washed and found a piece of rope to use as a belt. When he took in the red uniform (sans helmet and rifle, bayonet tucked into his belt), the man let loose a low growl and grabbed hold of Keith. Startled, Keith stumbled after him as the man dragged him along the street.

"Stop!" he eventually thought to say. "What are you doing? Let me go!"

But the man didn't listen and Keith soon found himself in the darker, poorer areas. There was even less noise. Only a vague buzzing which Keith didn't understand until he spotted the little spots of black spiralling around: flies. He swallowed and resolved to keep his mouth shut, using his free hand to swat them away. In front of him, flies landed on and promptly flew away from the man. He didn't bother to scare them away.

It occurred to Keith that he could fight, could pull on his arm and stop him. Maybe he should take the man back to his temporary barracks for punishment. But, judging from the state of him, he wouldn't survive a flogging. And, for some reason, Keith didn't want to see the man die.

Even the thought of it hurt his heart.

Then, suddenly, they were going indoors. The stench of death and filth and rotten vegetables assaulted him and Keith gagged. Thankfully, he kept his food down. It took him a while to become aware that the man had stopped. He glared at Keith before spinning him around and pointing.

A forest of bodies lay there. Some of them were in the process of rotting: he could see it in the way their skin sagged. All of their skin was paler than the man's in their death but Keith could see similar features in the long, straight nose, the pretty lips. There were young children there, dressed in pretty clothes, their hands laid upon their chests. Each of the bodies held a single flower.

Keith turned from the sight and threw up. Behind him, the man snarled and shoved him out of the little dwelling, barely allowing him the time to recover from his vomiting. Once outside, the man shoved him again and Keith, unbalanced, fell onto his behind. Wide-eyed, Keith looked up.

"Mi familia," the man snapped and Keith didn't need to know Spanish to know what he meant. Not when the man's face crumpled and tears began to flow.

Hesitantly, Keith got to his feet. "I am sorry for your loss," he said, quietly. The man didn't seem to understand, shaking his head as he rubbed at his eyes. "I am sorry," Keith repeated, trying to look apologetic. He wasn't sure he succeeded. "Sorry."

"'Sorry'?" the man said. His eyes narrowed. "No." He shoved Keith again who stumbled backwards, flinching at the force of it. "¡Vete!”

Unsure of what to do, Keith slowly backed away. He didn't think sticking around was a good idea. But, as he made his way along the street, he noted again how thin the man looked and decided that he'd make sure that he, at least, would survive.

* * *

**11** **th** **January 1763**

Despite Keith's efforts, the man he'd gotten to know over the months of the British occupation, did not see the return of the Spanish. His name turned out to be Lorenzo Antonio del Rio, as Keith found out on his third visit. It always sounded wonderful coming from his lips, a pretty language, Keith thought. After hearing Lorenzo speak using Spanish, he'd tried to learn some of it and now understood a few simple phrases. Unfortunately, he wasn't as quick as Lorenzo who had quickly learnt enough English to hold a conversation.

Keith told him he was a genius – it only took him a few hours to turn up at the site Keith was doing his drills with a smug grin on his face in answer.

They'd become good friends but, after so long spent in the army, Keith knew he wanted more. He yearned to know more about Lorenzo, to be able to speak to him unfalteringly, wanted to discuss his interests. Secretly, he hoped that the British would keep Cuba in its Empire. He'd heard that was unlikely, though, and he wondered if he could desert before he had to leave.

Lorenzo, meanwhile, had fattened up, had found better clothes... had buried his family. He'd curled against Keith's side the day they'd buried them, both of them hidden in the house his family had wasted away in. Keith had felt horribly guilty but Lorenzo, after drying his tears, had refused his apology, this time with a smile on his face.

As his father had been a fisherman and Lorenzo had been on a few trips with him, Lorenzo took to that. Keith often looked out over the waters, waiting for the boat with the blue paint to come sailing towards him. A few times, he had managed to sneak away from his duties and go with Lorenzo, fumbling with the lines. Lorenzo had laughed at him and, after a bit of a language barrier, they had gotten Keith's line cast properly.

Unfortunately, disease was still ripe in the city. Lorenzo took it upon himself to try helping those who were dying, taking them food and water, sitting with them when no-one else appeared. Keith had tried to tell him to be careful but he wasn't sure it had gotten through to him. Sometimes, Keith even followed Lorenzo around, trying to keep the kind man away from the stricken in an attempt to save him from the same fate.

Staring down at the yellowed, lighter skin of Lorenzo, Keith realised that he'd been unsuccessful. "Lorenzo," he murmured and bit his lip as Lorenzo's head lolled in his direction. His eyes, though still with that wonderful blue, were tinged with yellow.

"Keith," Lorenzo said before coughing. Black blood speckled his shirt as he hunched in on himself. "Go." Weakly, Lorenzo lifted a hand and waved it towards the door. His hand flapped. "Safe."

"No, Lorenzo," Keith said, fiercely. "I can't let you-" He broke off, choked. This was just unfair. Why had fate decided Lorenzo should go in the same manner as his family? If this was what the world had in store for him, why hadn't it let him die with his family instead of suffering through their deaths?

Something tapped at his wrist and he looked up, unaware he had lowered his head. He looked up at Lorenzo who smiled at him. "Remember," he said, hitting himself on the chest before pointing at Keith. "Live."

"No," Keith repeated. "I-I can get a doctor. They'll help you."

Lorenzo snorted. It turned into another coughing fit, though this one seemed to take more out of him. "No. Nothing can be done."

"I have to do something."

"Yes," said Lorenzo, his voice growing weaker with every word. "Live. Promise me you will live."

Keith hesitated. If this was Lorenzo's last wish, then he wanted to grant it. But he didn't think he would know how to live without Lorenzo around. He had truly brightened up his days. He had brightened up his life.

And he had kissed him, once, shortly before the illness took him.

It had been the best kiss Keith had ever had and he yearned for more. But not from just anyone – he wanted Lorenzo's soft lips on his, Lorenzo's tongue pushing against his, Lorenzo's body pressed against his.

As Lorenzo began to frown, Keith nodded, feeling a tear fall from the movement and trickle down his cheek. "I promise," he breathed, barely audible had Lorenzo not been listening intently.

That made Lorenzo smile. "Good," he said and folded his hands over his chest, clasping his fingers together. His entire body relaxed then, convulsed before Keith could register what was happening and fell still.

Holding his breath, Keith listened. There were no other sounds. He couldn't hear Lorenzo's rattling breathing. Shakily, Keith held out his hand, checking for the feel of Lorenzo's breath on his palm. There was nothing and Keith slumped forward at the realisation that his Lorenzo was dead. He gripped at the man's hand and begged some higher power to return Lorenzo to him – to no avail.

* * *

**31** **st** **March 1864**

Shiwoo had been taken along on the embassy expedition because his brother – his nii-chan – had asked him to. Shiro had taken him in when his parents had died. He'd been in Korea at the time for trade and he had met Shiwoo then. His parents had been on friendly terms with him and, when they both died at sea on their way to Edo as emissaries, Shiro had looked after him. Then Shiro had been asked to go with Ikeda Nagaoki to France.

Their journey had been wondrous. Shiwoo had seen nothing like it; all of the countries they journeyed through or sailed around were fascinating. He had been in awe and Shiro constantly chuckled at him which only made Shiwoo scowl. Despite his reactions, he was happy and happy that Shiro was happy. He hoped that they could be happy for the rest of their lives, even after Shiwoo had married.

On the way to France, the expedition stopped in Egypt, travelling to Cairo, specifically. Shiwoo was amazed, gazing at the architecture which had withstood the sands of time and openly staring at the people who he passed in the streets. They wore much the same as the people in Japan had when he'd reached there so he was used to the suits and dresses. But some of the Egyptians wore plain robes instead. All of them had dark skin and spoke in a variety of languages – though that was mostly to the people with pale skin who wandered around, staring down their noses at everyone. Others, of course, were too poor for that and scurried around in rags.

The expedition decided to stay in Cairo for a week in order to pick up supplies while also resting from what had still been an arduous journey. Both Shiro and Shiwoo were curious about the place and, after having dinner with their colleagues, decided to go for a stroll to see what they could. Even after the sun had set, there were lights and noise. Hawkers still called to those passing, showing off their wares. Bars were open and laughter and rowdy noises came from within the well-lit buildings. People were chattering as they walked: there were just as much people around as during the day. Carts were pulled by donkeys and horses, some of them unkempt. Spicy smells mingled with perfumes and the sharp scent of shit and sweat.

After a while, it began to be too much for Shiwoo. He desperately wanted to find someplace quiet – or at least quiet _er_. The smell was also getting to him and he'd had to swallow down bile several times. Once they'd passed by a group of women dressed in black and white robes, nodding politely, Shiwoo turned to Shiro and spoke to him in Japanese.

"I would like to rest – is there anywhere we could go to sit a while?"

"Hm. I am unsure," Shiro told him. He looked around, surveying their current surroundings.

A man suddenly popped up at their side and Shiwoo narrowed his eyes, shifting so that he could effectively disarm him if he needed to. But the man spoke in a different language, the one Shiro had opted to learn for their mission. Shiwoo only recognised the sounds from overhearing Shiro's lessons. As Shiwoo still struggled with some aspects of Japanese, he had decided that he did not want to overwhelm himself with learning English as well. Japanese was hard enough.

Shiro replied to the man and, after a brief conversation, Shiro's eyes widened and he quickly shook his head. Annoyed at being left out of the conversation, Shiwoo said, "What is he saying?"

Glancing at Shiwoo, Shiro seemed to hunch in on himself. "He... He is suggesting we go to his club, a place with... girls."

"Girls? Then why is he inviting us?"

"No, Shiwoo," said Shiro, shifting uneasily. "They are for... 'our enjoyment'."

Understanding dawned and Shiwoo blushed. "Tell him we do not want that but we wish to find a place to rest."

Nodding, Shiro relayed this to the man. It took a moment but the man laughed, nodded, and gestured for them to follow. Shiro glanced at Shiwoo. "He says that he knows somewhere."

It didn't take long for them to reach the place, a stone building a little way down the street. Steps led down to the door from the street. Whatever the building was, its windows were covered and the doorway was blocked by a tall man. He looked at them, unimpressed. When he spotted their guide, he nodded once, stepped aside, turned and opened the door. Noise, perfume, smoke and hazy lighting hit them both all at once. Shiwoo would have stepped back but their guide ushered them in, said something else in English and promptly disappeared.

Once inside, both Shiro and Shiwoo stared around, Shiwoo trying to discreetly rub at his watering eyes. Tables filled the room, chairs surrounding each one. Some of them had plush, soft seats attached to little walls, almost closing them off from the rest of the room. Waiters moved around, dressed in suits with black ties and waistcoats. Each of them held a tray with drinks on it, brought over from the little area cut off by a wooden counter of some sort. Men sat around, chattering and drinking, singing along to exotic music. Most of them had removed their jackets and had their sleeves pushed up, hats on the tables beside them.

Some of the tables, however, were bigger than others. Upon them and plinths dotted around the area, women danced. All of them wore very little, their legs, arms and necks on show. Shiwoo could even see the curves of their breasts and their flat stomachs. Feeble threads dangled down to cover them but did little to hide them. Others wore silks which were so thin that you could see right through them.

For a while, neither Shiro nor Shiwoo moved. Then Shiro turned to Shiwoo, keeping his eyes averted. "Come. We must go from here. We should not be here."

Shiwoo tried to obey Shiro but the shock of what he was seeing had made him feel light-headed. "I do not think I can walk far," Shiwoo told Shiro, reaching out to a nearby table to steady himself.

Shiro frowned but nodded. "Okay. We shall sit in one of those closed off areas for a while. Try not to look."

"Yes, nii-chan," Shiwoo agreed, letting Shiro lead him to the table in question.

Sitting down, Shiwoo saw that they had opted for one of the larger ones, like the ones the dancers stood atop. He was glad none were there now and he lay his head back, closing his eyes. Taking deep breaths through his mouth, he ignored Shiro speaking to the waiter. His head was starting to feel muddled from the perfume: not quite a headache but enough to dull his reactions.

So, when he sat up straighter in order to receive his drink, he only blinked when a young man his own age appeared. The man had brown skin and piercing blue eyes, so bright that they cut through the haze. Shiwoo was taken aback as the man grinned at them, his teeth perfect and white. It lit up his whole face. When he placed his foot on a chair in order to climb onto the table, Shiwoo finally noticed what he was wearing. Fine blue silk adorned him, his vest merely looped around his neck. It flapped loosely at his waist and Shiwoo realised that it was open at the back. Just as thin, his trousers ended at his calves. Below them, were anklets, gold with turqouise embedded in them. His wrists beheld similar adornments. A necklace with thin, golden beads hanging down in strands made it seem like liquid gold was pouring from his neck. On his head was a golden circlet, a large topaz pride of place.

Yelping, Shiro shook his head. Saying something in English, he quickly averted his gaze. Shiwoo watched the man say something back, marvelling in his voice. It was as if the silk he had draped around him was suddenly enveloping Shiwoo. He wanted nothing more than to stay at the table and listen to him speak, even if he didn't understand him.

How he wished he could.

Cursing his lack of foresight, Shiwoo turned to Shiro, feeling a little dazed. "What did he say?" he asked, softly.

Surprised, Shiro looked at him. Then he frowned. "Shiwoo..." he began.

"Nii-chan. Please."

"Please?" the man suddenly said in Japanese, yanking Shiwoo's attention back to him. His head was tilted to the side. Clearly he had just repeated the word he had heard but, with his position, he looked as if he was pleading.

"Yes," said Shiwoo, leaning towards him. He nodded, in case the man didn't understand.

"Yes," the man repeated, smiling. Then he glanced at Shiro, speaking to him in English once again.

Shiro replied, a disapproving look on his face. The man only smiled wider and slid onto the seat beside Shiro. Shiwoo felt a pang of jealousy. Confused at that, he pushed it away and watched as the man arranged himself so that he sat with one leg over the other's knee. Seated like that made it obvious that his trousers had slits from his waist to the cuff at his calves. With his exotic skin on show, the man let his head fall back, eyeing Shiro.

Then he said, "Please?"

Hearing a sharp intake of breath, Shiwoo suddenly knew that Shiro was now just as enthralled as Shiwoo was. He hesitated for the briefest moment before slowly turning to Shiwoo. "He... He wants to know if you want him to dance."

"What? Why me?"

After translating, Shiro told him, "Because you have been staring at him since he got here."

Feeling his cheeks heat, Shiwoo turned his head away. "A-Apologise for me," he murmured. "I-I did not mean to offend-" He was cut off when, suddenly, a couple of fingers hooked under his chin and drew his head back up. The man had leaned over Shiro – who sat rigidly staring down at him – and was smiling at him. It looked rather fond.

" _No_ ," the man said and that was the one thing that Shiwoo did know what it meant. 

Heart beating wildly, knowing how improper and how harmful it could be to their mission if anyone ever found out, Shiwoo nodded. "Dance," he whispered. "Please," he added before Shiro could translate.

Seeming to understand, the man grinned and straightened. Shiro let out a soft sigh of relief. Body thrumming with anticipation, Shiwoo watched the man stand, stand on the chair he had sat on and step onto the table. Without a pause to catch his bearings, the man began to dance, spinning in slow circles. His hips shook in erotic movements. Long arms stretched to the heavens and shifted aside so that Shiwoo could see as much of him as possible. Deft steps showed off the man's legs.

Feeling his body react, Shiwoo knew there was no fighting this – he felt intoxicated despite not drinking anything and he could not draw his eyes away.

* * *

**30** **th** **April 1864**

When the expedition moved on to France, Shiwoo opted to stay behind. Shiro was worried, of course, but he told him that, once they had succeeded in their mission, he would return for him. Shiwoo had only smiled and said that he could, if he wanted, but he wasn't sure he would be ready to return to Japan. In fact, he wasn't planning on it, not if Lorenzo didn't want to.

After that first night in the club, Shiwoo had returned to watch him. He didn't do as the other men did and try to touch him or welcome Lorenzo into his lap. In fact, whenever Lorenzo tried to, Shiwoo would sidle away, face burning and heart racing. It had taken a few times but Lorenzo soon learnt that he didn't like that. They had exchanged names and tried to communicate, Lorenzo picking up Japanese quicker than Shiwoo could speak English.

Over the next month that Shiwoo spent wandering Cairo with nothing to do and money slowly dwindling, he frequented the club. He grew to know Lorenzo quite well: the man was from Cuba, had tried to start a life at sea, been refused, stowed away and been abandoned at Alexandria. At some point, he had ended up in Cairo where a woman named Allura had kindly taken him in and found him a job. When Shiwoo had tried to ask about what happened between Alexandria and Cairo, Lorenzo's smile had become fixed in a wavering smirk and he'd tried to crawl atop him, teasing tone in his voice as he spoke English Shiwoo didn't know. Since then, he hadn't asked but an ache in his chest suggested that something bad had happened to him.

Of course, Lorenzo had to work and sometimes had no time for Shiwoo. When Shiwoo watched what happened when other men had him to themselves, he had to restrain himself from pulling out his hidden katana. The men who paid to watch him often touched him and pulled at him, attempting to get him into their laps. Thankfully, Lorenzo could take care of himself and often punched a patron if he got too cocky. Somehow, they still came back for more.

Some men, however, were jealous of Shiwoo. They often spat racial abuse at him which he let flow over him. Lorenzo took offense, however, and would refuse to serve them. One man, a Prussian with long, pale hair, was particularly nasty. Whenever Lorenzo spoke up for Shiwoo, he would mutter something to Lorenzo which made him pale and the poor man would willingly leave Shiwoo for the Prussian's table. The Prussian seemed to have a table reserved for him as he would always go to the same one, a table out of sight of everyone else.

One night, Shiwoo had waited for Lorenzo to finish his work. They met at the front door., Lorenzo looking a little harried. " _Yours_ ?" said Shiwoo in English. " _Mine_ ?"

Lorenzo smiled. "Mine," he said in Japanese, sending a shiver down Shiwoo's spine.

" _Are you well_ ?" Shiwoo asked as they began to stroll along the street, close enough for their hands to brush. It had quietened down as the nightlife retreated to bed and the people who lived in the day were waiting for the dawn.

"Mm," said Lorenzo, considering. When Shiwoo gave him a stern look, he relaxed. "The...  _The Prussian_ – Lotor – he is not happy," he told Shiwoo.

" _Why not_ ?"

"He... He asked me to do something I did not want."

Shiwoo frowned. "What?"

Lorenzo gave Shiwoo a sad smile. " _You know what_ ."

Frown deepening, Shiwoo stopped in his tracks, turning to him. " _What did you say_ ?"

"No," said Lorenzo. " _I pushed him away. I did not let him touch me_ ." A smile graced Lorenzo's pretty visage. His hand rose and soft fingertips trailed along Shiwoo's cheek. He froze, unable to protest or move closer.

Perhaps, if he had, it would have been him to die.

Lorenzo's final words were, "I will not let him touch me, Shi-chan-"

Then, without warning, a dot appeared at his forehead. A bang, like the report from firing a pistol, echoed around the street. Lorenzo fell backwards, at first slowly, then all at once. Shiwoo stared at where he had been, the ghost of his touch still on his cheek, heart racing. When he managed to move, he turned to see the Prussian – Lotor – standing by an empty cart, close to a doorway, gun in hand. He stared at Lorenzo's body for a while before lifting his gaze to Shiwoo's. Neither of them moved.

Lotor turned and ran. Had Shiwoo not had Lorenzo to look after, he would have stopped him, slain him where he stood. As it was, he swore vengeance on the man as he collapsed to his knees, reaching out a hand to close those beautiful eyes for the last time.

* * *

**28** **th** **June 1942**

Keith's unit consisted of Takashi 'Shiro' Shirogane, Kyle 'Pidge' Gunderson and Honi 'Hunk' Hoapili. They had been working together since the outbreak of the war, training and bonding. He liked his unit, got along well with them and felt they could take on anything. They'd travelled to Britain with them and they'd been excited to see parts of the world they'd never seen before. Keith, in particular, had always wanted to travel, to run from a conventional life. He knew that what they were about to go into would be difficult and serious but he was immensely glad that he'd gotten away from the woman his parents kept suggesting he take on a date.

The airfield they were based at was in the English countryside, far from London. They had barely seen the city before they piled into trucks and were driven off. Pidge had been hanging out of the back of the truck to watch the large buildings slowly disappear and be replaced by rolling green fields and hedgerows. Eventually, they had arrived at their new barracks where several planes had been relocated after having been recovered from the fall of France.

After they'd settled, Keith and his unit had exited the building they would sleep in and made their way over to the rows of planes. They found theirs right away, the easily recognisable Hawks being the only American warplanes among the other British models. Keith wandered past various ones until he found some with little spots of colours on the noses. Yellow, green, purple – and red. He gravitated to that one and stared up at it, a smile forming.

"Ah!" said Hunk, coming up behind him. "Have you found your plane, then?"

"I'll fly the one I've been assigned," Keith told the bigger man.

"I reckon they'll give us whichever planes we want," Pidge commented as he appeared at Hunk's side.

Glancing at Shiro, the higher ranked pilot nodded. "They did say something about 'pick of the planes'."

"They've got an enclosed cockpit, of course, and a retractable undercarriage, one of the first of its kind," Hunk informed them as he gazed at the yellow one.

"So, even if you throw up, we won't get hit by it," said Pidge, slyly. He grinned when Hunk sent him a betrayed look.

"I'm sure Hunk'll perform amazingly," said Shiro in a placating tone.

Keith rolled his eyes. "Only if he can keep up with us."

Shiro frowned in mock disapproval and gave Keith a whack to his shoulder. "No flying off on your own, mister!" he exclaimed.

Smirking, Keith shrugged the shoulder he'd hit. "Then you'll just have to keep up."

"Only if you're not flying the blue one!" came a smooth, accented voice. They all turned towards it in surprise and found a tall pilot striding towards them. His skin was the dark brown of a Latino. Mussed hair curled around his face and stuck up in clumps. Long limbs drew him quickly closer and, up close, Keith could see bright blue eyes looking over them all. With the bomber jacket and helmet in his hand, the man looked the part of a hero.

"Ah, sorry," said Shiro, glancing at the planes they'd been eyeing up. "Have these already been claimed?"

"No," said the man, waving his hand in dismissal. "Just the blue one – I want that one."

"Well, that's all right!" said Hunk, cheerfully. "We want the other colours."

"Great!" exclaimed the man, grinning at them. "The name's Lance – at least, that's what everyone calls me."

Shiro stuck out a hand as he introduced them all. Lance shook it before shaking everyone else's. "Which Air Force are you with, Lance?" Shiro asked. "Will you be flying alongside us?"

"Actually, sir," Lance said, raising a hand to give a small salute using only two fingers. "I've been assigned to your unit."

"Really?" said Shiro, evidently surprised.

"They want a five man team," Lance explained. "Or so they told me."

"Why don't you have your own team?" Keith asked without thinking.

Lance faltered. He turned a frown on Keith. "There was something wrong with the engine of my Aeronca. The rest of my unit's gone on without me. I've been waiting for someone to fly with. Been training in the blue one – that's why it's _mine_."

"Do you think you can keep up with us?" Keith said, raising his chin. "We've been called the fastest in the Air Force."

"In the American Air Force, yes," Lance said, his eyes narrowing at Keith as he smirked. Something about it seemed familiar and sent chills down Keith's spine. "Not in the world. And I bet I'm faster than _you_."

"Really? Wanna put that to the test?"

"Keith..." said Shiro in warning.

"A race?" said Lance, stepping closer to Keith, looming above him.

"Is that really safe...?" said Hunk.

"I don't think they're gonna listen," Pidge told them with a put-upon sigh.

"Sure," Keith agreed, ignoring his teammates.

Lance planted his helmet on his head. "Then start her up," he said, nodding to the red one. "Let's test how quick you think you are."

Grinning, Keith turned to the plane and began making preparations. After so long on a ship and then on land, he was going to be glad to be able to take to the air. Even if he was racing a rather cocky Latino.

* * *

**17** **th** **August 1942**

Two months after they had arrived at the airfield, Keith's team was on a mission. At first, he had been doubtful that Lance would integrate with their unit as well as he did. But Lance proved himself, again and again. Even if he wasn't as fast or reckless or lucky as Keith. They'd all slowly bonded. Keith and had been the one Lance bonded with most.

Lance had told him numerous things about himself. He was Cuban, for a start. His parents had been worried that he was going to be flying, thought it was unnatural. If Lance hadn't been the best pilot in his class, he would have set their minds at ease and joined the navy. That was something Keith hated thinking about as he knew they'd never have met if he had. Lance also told Keith that he had a 'sweetheart' at home, someone he'd known from childhood. At least, everyone assumed that they'd be married, just as everyone assumed Keith would marry the girl waiting for him. However, Lance confided in Keith that, though he adored her, he didn't love her and didn't want to marry her. It explained the flirting he did with Allura, one of the women pilots.

He'd also learnt that Lance's favourite colour – blue – reminded him of cloudless skies and the perfect ocean at the beaches he grew up alongside. Lance hated tea and only drank coffee and water. He put a lot of sugar in his coffee and sometimes even cream. If his food didn't have spices in it, it was too bland for Lance, according to his loud declarations. The man was confident and cocky on the outside but, when there were quiet moments, and when they were alone, he would lose the smiles and tell Keith some of his worries.

Mostly, they were about what they were heading into. Lance had been there for longer than they had and had seen first-hand the state of the pilots who had just returned from mission. Those that came back, at any rate. He was terrified of dying but, more than that, he was terrified of failing, of what the Nazis would do to his family if he didn't help to stop them.

Keith reassured him those nights with hugs and murmured reassurances – despite the fear he felt just as intensely.

Other things he found out, just a few days before their mission, were that he liked Keith's eyes and that he enjoyed their time together. Keith answered in kind but also added that he liked Lance's long limbs, taking the chance to stroke along his thigh as they sat beneath the blue Hawk. It had been dark, that night, and the only sign that Lance was blushing was his ducked head. But he pressed a quick kiss to Keith's cheek before rushing off to his own, deserted barracks.

When they had been clambering into their planes for take-off, they had shared a quick, chaste, desperate kiss. Keith's lips were still tingling as they flew over the Channel to the mainland.

Their mission was lacking in details: go behind enemy lines and bomb factories that their intelligence had provided them the locations for. It was simple, in theory. But there was no way to know how the enemy's troops had moved or if they had any anti-aircraft weapons. Shiro hadn't been pleased. Hunk had looked ill as they got ready. Pidge was tight-lipped. Keith didn't speak, knowing full well that they weren't likely to come back – it was just one of those missions.

Lance saved them from completely disintegrating. He'd bounded out to the planes with a grin on his face and a cocky, "Race you, Keith!" on his lips. Cracking jokes as they climbed into the air, Lance had managed to coax a few laughs from all of them and much more groans at his puns. Then he'd led them in a sing-song. Those on the ground laughed at them but their spirits were lifted with their planes and Keith's heart swelled.

His jokes stopped, however, when they entered enemy air space.

The enemy had anti-aircraft weapons.

There were several minutes of being banged around, panic as his friends were hit. Pidge had to eject, parachuting down into the enemy's waiting hands. Shiro's plane was hit so badly he couldn't get his cockpit open, he couldn't eject. The plane went up in flames when it crashed. Lance and Hunk pushed on when Keith was hit, even though Keith managed to keep his plane in the air. Hunk's plane took a direct hit and exploded in the air, right next to Lance's. The other pilot screamed his grief and shock as debris from Hunk's Hawk sliced through the blue one.

Suddenly, Keith's plane was hit as well and both he and Lance were suddenly alone in the air, planes gone, parachutes out. They were fairly close and Keith called out to him as they slowly drifted downwards. "Have you seen Pidge?"

When Lance looked up at him, Keith could see his blue eyes – they must have been wide in panic to be seen through his goggles. "No! Where is he?!"

Keith turned his head. "I don't see him!"

"¡Mierda!"

They floated downwards, smoke from the downed planes clouding their vision. Eventually, they were clear of it and could see the ground – and the forces moving into place. They were about to be captured. "Shit," muttered Keith, wondering what they could do.

"Keith!" Lance cried. "What do we do? Fight?"

"We can't fight our way out of that," Keith replied. "We're going to have to surrender."

All too soon, they were landing in a little crowd of German forces. As soon as they touched down, there were men moving all around them, cutting off their parachutes, disarming them, gripping their arms. They pulled off their helmets with such violence that Keith felt hair being pulled from his head. The two pilots were dragged away from their landing site, heading to group of vehicles. Standing there were their higher ups, German officers with the Swastika on their arms. Their black uniforms made them look ominous.

Running his eyes over them, Keith noted that there were four women standing there, watching them with varying expressions. One of them looked blank, the black cat on her shoulder showing more emotion than she did. Another looked at them with disdain, a lock of hair hanging down one side of her face. A younger woman with an amused look had eyes that glinted with mirth and stood beside one that looked gleeful, her fists clenching.

That one said something in German to a man who suddenly lifted his head. His long, pale blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. Cruel blue eyes surveyed them from beyond his officer's cap. He said something in reply, looking amused. Keith gritted his teeth, wishing he knew what he was saying. Shiro had learnt German specifically so he could speak for them in this situation. What was he supposed to do now? He glanced at Lance and felt a bolt of fear run through him: he did not want Lance to suffer for something he did wrong.

But, as he looked at Lance, he noted his glare, directed at the man. "Hey!" he snapped. "Do you mind filling us in? Or, if you're going to kill us, get on with it?"

"Lance," Keith murmured, warningly.

The general raised an eyebrow and stalked forward until he stood right in front of Lance. "I do apologise," he said, his German accent thick but his English perfect. "I was merely telling my underling here to hold off giving you a beating." He placed the tips of his two forefingers under Lance's chin, only his black gloves keeping them from directly touching. Tilting Lance's head up, he smiled down at him as Lance tried to move away: the men holding him stopped Lance from getting away from the man. "After all," the general continued, "it would be a waste not to use what God has granted us. You are rather pretty – too pretty for a war-"

"Get your hands off him!" Keith growled, realising where he was going with this.

Turning his head, the man chortled – it sounded dangerous. "Ah, I have a jealous rival, I see."

"Enough of that," Keith told him sternly, trying to channel Shiro. "We're your prisoners, yeah, but you still have to keep us safe."

"Only if you behave," the general said. He said something in German and, suddenly, the soldiers let Lance and Keith go. "Do I have your guarantee that you will behave?" he asked the two pilots.

Lance sidled closer to Keith, glancing nervously at him. "Of course," said Keith, though not without speaking through gritted teeth.

"Excellent." The Nazi officer turned to the women but, instead of speaking in German, he spoke to them in English. "Take the Asian one to one of the camps. I shall take the other one home with me."

Beside Keith, Lance stilled. His wide-eyed gaze turned to Keith, eyes pleading. Keith couldn't deny him anything. "No!" he exclaimed, leaping forward. If he killed the man here and now, Lance would be safe. It was the only solution he could think of to save Lance.

"Wait, Keith!" cried Lance from behind him but Keith didn't listen.

"I won't let you-!" he began.

The sound of a gun firing stopped him in his tracks. Something hit into his lower back and he fell forward, expecting to feel pain in a moment. Then he realised that there were a pair of arms wrapped around him. Landing in the dirt, Keith gasped in a breath and turned his head, trying to see over his shoulder. When he couldn't, he squirmed out from under the weight pinning him down and rolled over, alarmed to see Lance beside him, wide blue eyes staring at him. Then he raised his gaze and took in the hole in the back of Lance's bomber jacket. Lance loved that jacket. It was stained now, the dark patch widening rapidly as he struggled to breathe.

"No! Lance!" Keith cried, scrambling up to his knees. He grabbed hold of Lance's shoulders and drew him onto his lap. "What the hell did you do that for?!"

"Couldn't let you die," Lance gasped, his eyelids fluttering.

"Why? _Why_?!"

Lance gave a short laugh before wincing in pain. "You know why," he croaked, reaching out to Keith.

Without hesitating, Keith grabbed his hand. He held on tightly. "Don't you dare," he whispered. "Don't you dare die."

"Sorry, buddy," Lance said. He squeezed Keith's hand. "Don't give up. Pidge is... still out there, somewhere. Find him. Save him." Lance coughed a few times.

Someone took hold of Keith's arm. He had completely forgotten about the enemy soldiers surrounding them. With a growl, he wrenched his arm from their grip. Another hand landed on his other arm and he threw a punch before curling around Lance. "Leave him alone!" Keith shouted.

"Keith," said Lance, drawing his attention away from them. Other hands replaced the ones from before. "Keith. Don't fight them..."

"I won't let them take you from me," Keith snapped at him.

Lance smiled sadly at him. "I don't... think..." He took a breath, struggling with it. "Think... they-" Lance took a final breath and his eyes, those beautiful eyes which had been swimming with tears a moment ago, suddenly dulled. A single tear fell, trailing down his dirty cheek to reveal the pretty skin beneath.

Unable to believe it, Keith stared down at him. He went limp and the soldiers were finally able to pull him away. As they dragged him towards the truck, Keith kept his gaze on Lance, watching as the general stepped towards Lance and prodded his body with a foot.

* * *

**September 2017**

Keith sat bolt upright, yelling in dismay. He leapt from his bed and scrambled for... something. Someone.  _ Him _ . The man he'd seen. An alarm was going off and he couldn't figure out where it was coming from as his heart beat wildly in his ears and he panted heavily. 

A door slammed open and Keith spun around, spotting his adoptive brother Shiro. As soon as he saw him, he remembered where he was – but it didn't erase the other memories. He knew, then, that there was no Cuban man lying dead in his arms, no deathly ill survivor struggling to breathe, no slave accepting his final fate.

"What? What is it?!" exclaimed Shiro.

Placing a hand over his heart in a futile attempt to calm himself, Keith took a few gulps of air. He stumbled back to his bed and collapsed on it, slapping at his alarm clock. "I just..."

They both looked at each other for a moment, at a loss for words. Finally, Shiro breathed out in relief and laughed. "Ah. It was just a nightmare, huh?"

" _ Nightmares _ ," Keith corrected him. "Though... it seemed more like memories."

"'Memories'?" Shiro echoed. He pulled Keith's computer chair around so that he could sit and face him.

"Like... past lives? There were knights and Victorians and World War Two pilots..." Keith explained, still struggling to glean meaning from them. "You were in them."

"I was?"

"Yeah. You were this important Japanese guy and then a pilot in World War Two. I flew with you."

"Oh? What happened to me?"

Keith flinched. "You... You crashed. I don't think you survived. Lance didn't."

"Who?"

Raising his eyes from the red bed covers, Keith looked into Shiro's calm eyes. Usually, that would soothe Keith when he was feeling panicked or angry or overwhelmed. This time, however, he just felt a horrible, gaping hollowness in his chest, the loss still with him. "He," Keith said, slowly. "He was the guy I kept dreaming about. Every time I saw him, every time I met him... he died. Right in front of me. Every time. And-And I  _ knew _ him. It hurt. Every single time."

Shiro gazed at him for a few moments. "That seems rather specific..."

"Yeah. Do you think I was dreaming about my past lives?" Keith frowned at the floor. "'Cause, if I was, I need to avoid meeting this Lance guy, if he's alive right now."

"Why?"

The ache in his chest grew worse as he took a breath and shrugged. "He keeps dying because of me."

"I doubt you were the one to ki- Were... Were you the one killing him?" asked Shiro, looking concerned.

" _ No _ !" cried Keith, aghast. His reaction was so powerful that Shiro leaned back, surprised. "But... if I..." Trailing off, he felt the ache growing. Shaking his head, he suddenly stood. "Never mind. It was probably just a crazy dream." He looked to Shiro and, seeing his disapproving frown, gestured at the door. "I've gotta get ready for college."

* * *

The dreams – or memories – stayed with him as he wandered through the campus. Keith stayed with his brother in his apartment a few blocks away. Shiro had gotten a good job in a mechanical engineering company straight out of the same college. Their parents had high hopes that Keith would follow in his footsteps but Keith really only wanted to be working in a garage, fixing cars. He'd actually been thinking of dropping out and doing just that – he already had a part-time job in one.

Musing on all of this, Keith was paying little attention to where he was going. Perhaps, if he had, he would have chosen a different route. As it was, he passed close to the Arts building – and walked smack into someone. They both cried out and stumbled away, Keith's bag falling from his shoulder.

"Oh, buddy!" exclaimed a familiar voice as Keith tried to get his bearings. "I am so sorry!" The guy who'd bumped into him had evidently been walking backwards as he gave a sheepish wave to someone across the quad before he turned to Keith.

He couldn't help the look of shock and horror which crossed his face. There, standing before him, healthy as a horse, was Lance. The same dark skin and bright eyes. Exactly the same sheepish smile. Hair artfully mussed. Long limbs. Jeans which hugged his hips. Thin, blue t-shirt with an open jacket slung over the top of it.

Keith's mouth didn't know what it wanted to do, opening and closing. Finally, he managed: "Right."

"Um," said Lance, raising an eyebrow. "Dude? You all right? You look like you've seen a ghost..."

Unbidden, a laugh ripped itself from Keith's throat. When he'd calmed down, he noticed Lance's wide eyes and averted his gaze. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Maybe."

"O... kay?" said Lance, slowly. "Well, anyway..." He paused then bent over (Keith stifled a strangled noise as he caught sight of the perfect curve of Lance's back) and grabbed Keith's bag. "Be careful, okay, buddy?" he said as he passed it over. When Keith seemed hesitant to take it, Lance looped it over his shoulder. "Okay, see ya!" And he walked off.

Keith watched him go, turning to keep him in sight. He didn't notice his bag falling off his shoulder as he moved. Lance made his way into one of the Arts buildings and Keith found himself desperately wanting to know what course he was doing. Then he remembered Lance's eyes, so bright and full of life, dulling in death. Shuddering, Keith shook his head. There was no way he could stand to watch that happen again.

He clenched his fists, glaring at the building. Keith couldn't let Lance get close to him. From now on, he decided, he would have to keep as far away from him as possible.

**Author's Note:**

> 11th Century: I decided I wanted to have them in a battle to begin with as knights only to realise that Lance would be better as an archer. But then they wouldn't have met and... well. I thought it would make sense if Lance was short for Lancelot - like, it's a popular name in the time or something. I didn't really decide on where they were supposed to be except in Europe.
> 
> 1240: Again, I didn't decide on a particular place. I wanted something to bridge between the knights and the next part. I took a lot of liberty with this and I know this section probably wouldn't have happened at all. But, eh.  
> The kids call him a 'Moor' but that's because they're repeating what they heard - which is wrong. Moors were people who sold slaves and weren't the slaves themselves.
> 
> June 1655: This is set during the [Joseon Dynasty](https://www.thoughtco.com/the-joseon-dynasty-in-korea-195719), during which Korea had a tributary relationship with the Qing Dynasty China after [a few invasions](http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/History_of_Korea#Three_Kingdoms_period). It was also isolated, kinda like Japan was. They weren't fond of foreigners. [Hendrick Hamel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hendrick_Hamel) was a Dutchman who was shipwrecked on one of Korea's islands. He and his crew were conscripted to the king's guard - until two of his crew tried to ambush an envoy to convince them to help them get out of Korea. They were sent to a barracks elsewhere before being split up. Hamel and his group were near the sea so they were able to sail away in a rowing boat till Japanese ships picked them up.  
> I just added Lance to the story.
> 
> 1762: [This section deals with the British takeover of Havana](https://warwick.ac.uk/fac/arts/history/ecc/emforum/projects/adayinhistory/11august1762/) which I didn't know about. It happened during the 7 Years War. The British did some fancy thing about trading in sugar which made it easier for Cuba to get sugar. Eventually, they did a deal with Spain in a sort of "We'll give you this back if you give us Florida" - and that was how the British Empire got another part of America for themselves. The Spanish got their colony back in [July 1763](http://www.lahabana.com/content/the-british-take-over-of-havana-in-1762/) after a peace treaty was signed in February of that year.  
> Yellow fever was the biggest killer of the brief siege that happened. 3000 British soldiers died. 10,000 Cubans (which may or may not include the Spanish colonists cause, y'know, not sure how many natives were still around) died, mostly because of the yellow fever and lack of food.
> 
> 1864: The [Japanese embassy exhibition to Europe](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Japanese_Embassy_to_Europe_\(1863\)) was sent on the 29th of December 1863. I picked a random month for them to stop off in Egypt which is what they did. There's even pictures of them. I had decided on setting this section in Cairo - and this was a happy coincidence! Or fate...  
> I have no idea whether there were clubs in Cairo - but I'm presuming there were. Cause it's probably inevitable.
> 
> 1942: I chose 1942 because it's after America joined. [Cuba also joined](http://www.urrib2000.narod.ru/Mil1-4-e.html), like, a few days after America. (Be careful with that link - I clicked on part of the page and a second window popped up. Only click on the scrolly bit! It also tells you about Cuban aircraft.) By this point, [Cuba was independent](http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-latin-america-19576144). Or, rather, America stopped intervening on Cuba's issues. [Here's some stuff about the Hawks!](http://www.world-war-2-planes.com/Curtiss_P-36_Hawk.html) While Britain recovered some of them, Germany got the rest and sold them to Finland. I just found that interesting.  
> [17th of August was the first All-American air strike](http://www.historyplace.com/worldwar2/timeline/ww2time.htm#1942) so I just used that date for when they were undertaking their mission. Which was just some vague thing.


End file.
